Confessions
by Fairheartstrife
Summary: A series of one-shots around Meg and Castiel and their relationship that may develop into an actual story at some point. Rated M for language and themes.
1. Chapter 1

Hollow

"I don't remember being human." She says it almost idly, her pale fingertips tapping against the starch white of her thigh. The material chafes her skin and she wonders how anyone can like dressing in stiff skirts and pressed blouses. "Sometimes, I wonder if I ever was," she continues and tilts her head back, taking in the night sky through the bars of his window.

She glances once over her shoulder toward the man on the bed. Castiel doesn't respond. He very rarely does. His face is blank, his mind somewhere not there, the deep ocean of his eyes flat and lifeless."Not that it matters," she adds, turning back to the view. There are no stars tonight, and the moon is hidden and the shadows are long.

She fogs the glass with her breath and draws a mocking smilie face with her fingertip. Absent gestures that mean nothing to her or the man in the room. She doesn't know why she doesn't just leave him here to rot alone. For a time she was able to lie to herself, to tell herself that she needed him alive as insurance. If she watched over him then maybe, just maybe, the Winchester boys wouldn't try to remove her head from her torso when given the chance. And if any demons came gunning for her—and there were many on her tail—Castiel could smite them down. But after weeks of watching him watch the walls she knew that he offered her no more protection than a blanket from the boogie man.

If anything the little tree topper was a liability and she should cut her losses and run. And yet...here she remains. Surrounded by sobbing, wretched, broken humans that beg her for help and clutch at her sleeves and skin like she could actually ease them. It was laughable, really. Asking her, a demon that could easily and without regret slit each of them from throat to navel, for help.

She should just leave. Walk out the door now and never look back. What were the odds that the Winchesters would even bother with her now while the Leviathans roamed loose? She could evade other hunters, Crowley, and demons alike, after all, she'd managed it so far. So why is she still here, damn it? To watch over one shattered angel? Maybe she's just a glutton for punishment.

She shakes her head ruefully, reaching up to pull the pins from her tight coil, and continues to talk. "I suppose I must have been once," she mutters, tousling her dark hair with her free hand. "I mean, that's how it goes, right? Souls go to hell, get all slick and twisted in blood and fire," Meg wipes her hand across the smilie face, erasing it. "And then voila: demon."

Behind her, Castiel is silent.

She has no idea why she does this either—why she talks to him. She tells him things that she's never told anyone; things that she would rather keep buried, and yet she can't seem to stem the flow of words when she's alone with him. Especially at night, when the residents are quiet and it feels like it's only the two of them left in the world.

"I probably had a name once, too. Not that I can remember it. I've worn so many meatsuits that I've lost count and so many identities that they're all blended into one. One sincerely fucked up package of wanna-be actresses and broken dreams." She feels her lips curve and she slants Castiel a look over her shoulder. "Although, I did ride a nun once. At least until she burnt up."

A blink. Nothing more.

"You know, Clarence, you're seriously cramping my fun." With a sigh she makes her way to his side, bending so that her nose brushes his and stares into his eyes. "What is going on in there, feathers?" She taps two fingers to his temple and frowns. "What boat-load of crazy did you suck in from Sammy, huh? Is my father in there with you? Is he peeling you like a fruit?"

Castiel exhales but remains quiet. Pushing away from him, she rolls her eyes. "Just a little taste of Hell and all you angel babies fall to pieces."

"Loud..."

She's so startled by the sound of his voice that blinking is all _she_ does for a moment. Then, "What?"

"Loud...he is loud...can't...think..." He frowns, his brows drawing down over confused eyes. "Hurts."

Without realizing it, she's back at his side, her hand finding it's way to his hair, her fingers brushing the dark strands back. "Tell him to shut the fuck up," she says, surprising herself.

He tilts his head. "He says...the Pit is waiting...for you...traitor."

She shrugs, feigning a nonchalance she doesn't feel. "It can wait." She has to remind herself that it's _not_ Lucifer in there—not really. Her father is in a cage, locked and sealed. And she's helping the ones that stuck him there, an inner voice reminds her, making her flinch.

Despite the numerous vile things that could be said about her, she has never been disloyal and it bothers her to think that in the end, she may be. All demons were self serving, right? Just par for the course if she left Lucifer to stew for another few thousand years while saving her own ass.

Willing to leave her father—her creator—but not Blinky the angel. Damn, she was fucked up.

Abruptly Meg moves away from Castiel, rubbing her forehead. She should probably call Dean and let him know that his feathery friend was spitting out syllables. Maybe they'd come back and take him off her hands.

"Why...are you here?" Rougher than usual from lack of use, his voice skitters along her already fryed nerves.

She locks a crooked smile in place before turning to face him. "Couldn't leave you here all by your lonesome, now could I, Clarence? Besides, I couldn't resist the opportunity to give you sponge bath."

His eyes narrow for a moment and he opens his mouth—to retort, she thinks—but then his features go slack and placid and his eyes are once more hollow. He's lost in his inner Hell again.

"Oh, come on," she sighs, tossing her head back to swear at the ceiling. Once again she moves in front of him, bending so that she is in his eye-line. "Come out, come out, wherever you are," she sings.

Long minutes of silence stretch between them and she accepts that there will be no more progress this night. With more care than many would give her credit for, Meg shifts Castiel's listless form until he's lying on his bed before she drags the sheets over him. She has no idea if angels even get cold, but somehow he seems less vulnerable when tucked in, so she does it.

"There," she tells him, patting his chest. "Nighty night. Don't let the bed bugs bite. Although, honestly, they're probably the least of your worries." Her lips twitch but even to her the smile feels forced so she lets it drop.

It shouldn't bother her to see him like this, she thinks. If anything she should be smug, gloating, and laughing at his expense, but she can't bring herself to taunt or tease or mock and that scares her. Above the Winchesters, Crowley, or even Damnation, this frightens her.

She leans over him and presses her lips to his ear. "You had better snap out of it soon, Clarence, for both our sakes." And with that she leaves him.

On her way out she leaves instructions at the front desk to be immediately notified if he needs her or if anything changes, and she almost laughs when the night clerk tells her that she's such a good person. So dedicated.

In the parking lot she pauses and looks up towards the windows, absently seeking the black panel that belongs to him and tries to shake off the emptiness she feels.


	2. Chapter 2

**Voices**

He can hear her.

Somewhere beneath and between his own screams and Lucifer's annoying taunting and endless crackle of fire, he hears her. He's not even sure who she is, at this point, but he knows she's with him more often than not, and that when she's speaking he feels the closest thing to peace he's found in this nightmare. It's her voice that keeps him tethered...keeps him from falling too far into despair and desperation and into the chaos of his head.

This is important, he thinks, but he can never seem to break away from himself long enough to focus on it and and tell her. He wonders, sometimes, why she stays when he's so obviously lost. He knows that he's inside himself—in his own head—but that doesn't seem to make the pain any less real. When Lucifer cuts him, he bleeds; when fire dances on his skin, it blisters and peels—charcoal black—away from his bones until he is nothing more than a screaming mass of remains. He knows it's not _real_ but he still can't break away. He still can't shake the devil on his shoulder—in his blood.

But her voice soothes. Keeps him from drifting completely into insanity. Somewhere, deep down, he thinks he should find this odd. But he doesn't.

"My word, does she _ever_ stop talking?" Lucifer is picking his teeth with a bloody knife and raises a brow expectantly. "Makes me want to rip her tongue out."

Castiel edges away with his hands pressed to the fresh wounds on his stomach. He ignores his brother and instead cocks his head, hoping to catch her voice again. He does, but it's scattered words that make very little sense. Something about fruity summer drinks...

She's reading one of those supermarket magazines, he realizes and almost smiles. He catches himself, but it's too late. Lucifer has sensed his shift and will punish him for it.

His skin is ribbons and he begins screaming just as she starts reading about great party appetizers.

* * *

Meg lets out her breath, her voice gone tired. She shifts in her seat, her dark eyes watching the man in the bed. He hasn't moved in over three hours. His head is turned on his pillow, his gaze wide open and fixed. He's looking directly at her, but she knows he doesn't see her. She wonders what he does see...

She's been to Hell. She's tasted the blood and the fear and the horrors of it. More times than she cares to count, and as much as she wishes this fate on her enemies, she can't seem to find it in her to want this for _him. _

He's the only thing that can protect her from Crowley, long term, she tells herself. It's a lie. She knows it, but she wills it down. There's no sense in it and it's completely suicidal for her to let her guard down around an Angel of all things.

He would smite her, she reminds herself. Without so much as a blink, if Dean asked him to. She would be a fool to ever, _ever_, forget that. And although she was many things, fool wasn't on that list and she's not eager to add it.

If she was smart, she'd lean over his bed and slip the Angel blade she still carries between his ribs. Instead, she finds herself leaning over him to smooth his hair and adjust his pillow. "Snap out of it," she says with a small huff. "You're making us both pathetic."

Behind her the door opens and Meg can smell the menthol cigarettes that Donnie the orderly always smokes on his break. "Hey," he greets with a delicate throat clearing. He's small and balding and has a skin condition. She makes him nervous, she knows, and she's perfectly okay with that.

She turns with an arched brow and an impatient toe tap. "Yes?"

"There's two detectives here to see you." He glances over her shoulder. "About him."

Meg nods. About damn time the boys showed up. "Sure. Send them in."

"We weren't asking permission, Ma'am," another voice came from the hall.

Not the Winchesters.

_Shit._


	3. Chapter 3

Wives, it turns out, are a pain in the ass.

Meg regards the detectives in the room through narrowed eyes. Seems like Emanuel's little woman got tired of waiting for his miraculous return and had filed a missing person's report

The taller, lankier, detective—Darren Fitzgerald—holds a picture out to her. It's of Castiel and the woman Daphne. They're smiling and he's wearing an ugly green sweater. She doesn't take it from the officer, instead simply shrugging at him. "Looks like him," is all she offers.

"How long have you been his nurse, Ms...?"

"Masters," she replies with a slow smile. Of all the things she's stolen in her existence, this name is the most fun.

The detective raises his brow, while the other jots it down, and waits for her to elaborate.

"A few months. I arrived shortly after he did, I'm told." She glances over at her expressionless, silent, patient. "Happy coincidence," she adds with a toothy smile. "As you can see he needs me."

"So you have no idea of his past?" The other detective—who only gave her the name Simmons—asks, flipping through his notes. "Where he came from?"

Meg lets her expression turn faintly scolding. "It's not my place to question. A man's past is his own. Between him and God." On the bed Castiel fidgets. She flutters her lashes. "I only want to help those in need."

This time both of them smile at her in return.

Men. Such simple, easily manipulated, creatures.

With a soft sigh, Meg moves closer to Castiel and brushes a hand over his head, tousling his hair. "It's heartbreaking," she says, watching the way his dark locks poke between her pale fingers, "that someone can be so broken." She pauses, looking at the other two. "You are sure this..._Daphne_ woman is as she claims to be? His wife?"

"Of course."

"I don't mean to pry into your work, gentlemen. It's only that I want what is best for the patients in my care and I can't have strangers, or even family and wives disrupting their care. Especially if they may be the reason behind the mental break," she added with an air of confidentiality.

The officers exchange a look. "Is there reason to believe his wife may have contributed to his condition?"

Withholding her opinion on anyone marrying an amnesiac that they found naked beside a lake, she only offers, "In cases of such extreme repression, family or lovers are often found at the root. Look, gentlemen, I'm not saying that this woman _is_ in _any_ way responsible for my patient's condition. I'm simply wanting to know all of the facts so that I can ensure his best possible care. Surely you understand that?" She gave them another placating smile. "We're all just trying to do our jobs."

"We just have a few more questions."

The urge to rip their throats out is a pretty strong one, but she simply plasters that fake smile on and nods. "Of course." The next forty minutes are spent answering questions, dodging others, and trying to make sure that the detectives weren't going to be a problem.

Finally, Simmons flips his notepad closed before nudging his partner. "We'll get out of your way now. Thank you for your time."

She lead them to the door. "It's been no trouble at all, officers. Always happy to help." When they were in the hallway, she added, "Do make sure to keep me in the loop."

"As much as you need to be."

"Right."

Meg watches them until they're through the security doors before she makes her way back to Castiel's room. With each step she resists the urge to meet them in the parking lot and ensure that they can't return. She doesn't, because in the end any foul play will only cause more problems.

Back in the room she immediately goes to Castiel. His eyes are closed and his breathing is even. To anyone else he would appear to be sleeping. With a soft breath she returns to her seat bedside and picks up her magazine.

Between reading the latest celebrity gossip and smirking at trashy pics she peeks at him. He looks peaceful at the moment, with no tightness around his mouth or furrows on his brow and she wonders if maybe he's defeating the madness in himself.

She turns the page and silently cheers him on.


End file.
